


Warm Welcome

by The_Plaid_Slytherin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Boromir Lives, M/M, Minas Tirith, Post-War of the Ring, Reunions, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/pseuds/The_Plaid_Slytherin
Summary: Boromir returns home mostly whole, but there is one important thing he has forgotten.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	Warm Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Tarran paced in the courtyard in front of the Houses of Healing, waiting for some sign that Boromir was well. He knew no one would come and tell him, though Faramir had given him a pitying look that meant he had to know something of the nature of their relationship. 

He had left his apron in the forge, knowing that it was far too dirty to wear in the Houses of Healing, but that didn't mean the rest of him was particularly clean. He could not help but run right here when he heard Boromir was there, even if it had meant shutting the shop in the middle of the work day. He just hoped he wouldn't meet much scrutiny. 

He waited for a gap in the crowd and slipped through the doors. Boromir was in a private chamber, of course, with good lighting and plenty of fresh air. He lay on the bed, dark hair spread over the pillow. He was beautiful, and Tarran thought how much he loved him.

He reached out to touch him.

"You should not be here." 

Tarran turned, fear gripping his gut. "I…"

Faramir smiled reassuringly. "I am not here to run you out, though the healers will, lest you get soot on their patient. I only came to warn you they're making their rounds." 

Tarran wasn't surprised Faramir had some inkling of their relationship. The old steward surely had not, or he would have had Tarran sent away. He had a feeling he could trust the brother, though. Boromir had always spoken highly of his younger brother. 

"Warn me of what?" He stroked Boromir's hair. His beloved had a look of consternation on his face, as though something he saw in sleep distressed him, as though he was thinking hard, despite being asleep. Boromir usually looked relaxed in his sleep, though Tarran had seen that side of him fewer times than he'd have liked. Too often, Boromir had had to leave before he was missed. 

"There are many gaps in his memory." There was a sadness in Faramir's eyes as he related this. "He has spoken some to me when he was brought in. I'm not certain what happened but… be warned. He may not remember you." 

"Thank you." Tarran bent his head to kiss Boromir's forehead; perhaps it was his imagination, but he seemed to make a contented noise. Then, he left quickly, no matter how much he'd have liked to linger, so as not to attract the ire of any of the healers, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. 

**

Two weeks later, he was glad for Faramir's warning for else he would not have been prepared when Boromir walked into the forge. He crossed it with all the confidence he had once had, the confidence that had made Tarran love him.

"You are Tarran the smith?" 

Without the warning, this would have shattered his world, but now he could only nod numbly. "Yes, my lord." 

"I have heard you are the best swordsmith in Minas Tirith. I require a blade." 

Tarran took his order with a heavy heart. If Boromir did not remember him, he would rather he stayed far away from Tarran. Every time he saw those long fingers, he imagined them leaving searing hot paths along his body. Every time he saw that mouth, he longed to kiss it. 

"It will be ready in a week, I trust? You may have heard of my indisposition and I am eager to get back to the training grounds." 

"All Gondor hoped for your recovery, my lord."

"Thank you. The slowness of recovery frustrates me. I must have a sword so that I may fight again, for that is what I do. I hate to feel like an invalid. But my head feels full of cotton, like I cannot think. There is much I do not remember." 

"I think once you have your sword in hand, my lord, you might remember some. That is the way of it sometimes; being in familiar places, among familiar people…" He did not know what he was saying; the words seemed to leave his mouth on their own accord.

"I do remember being here before," Boromir said slowly. "I have been here before and talked with you."

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but Tarran dared not let them fall. "You have, my lord." He lowered his head, wishing his hair was down so he could hide his face, but it was coiled in a tight knot on the back of his head as it had to be in the forge. 

Boromir nodded. "That must be why you seem familiar, then. I will assume I've patronized you in the past." 

"You have, my lord." Tarran looked down at his ledger, so that the tear might fall on it unseen by Boromir. 

"Then I will assume I was satisfied and see you in a week." 

When he had gone, Tarran closed the forge to be alone with his heartache. He could do no more work today.

**

Boromir had not meant to go back to the smithy. There was no reason to, not when his sword would not be ready before the week was up. No, he was realizing, he was drawn to something in the smithy. 

Boromir paced the outer room, looking at the swords, the pikes, the shields on the walls. It was tantalizingly familiar, just as so many of the sights in the city were. 

Boromir watched the smith as he worked. He certainly had patronized him before. He had wandered each of the seven levels of the white city, as the memories came flooding back: this tavern had served a good strong stew but its beer was much watered down, this fletcher made the best arrows. And this swordsmith… 

His back was to Boromir, and he found himself transfixed by the broad back and corded muscles as he hammered the steel. Boromir's eyes feasted on every detail of the man; the way strands of auburn hair escaped the knot on the back of his head to stick to his neck, the firm set of his shoulders as he worked. He had studied everything in the city since his return, wanting the fog to lift and his memories to clear, but something about this man intrigued him. 

"Tell me, smith, did we speak before I left? Before the war?" 

There was the briefest of twitches in the steady line of the smith's shoulders. "You were oft here, my lord." 

Boromir bowed. "Then I will trouble you no more." _I must have been enamored of him_ , Boromir thought. He had certainly not forgotten his attraction to men, especially not when he looked at the smith Tarran's arse. He left, hoping to find a place that would evoke more concrete memories. 

**

Boromir came every day. Tarran treated it as mere interest in the formation of his sword. He could not afford to do anything else. He certainly could not make overtures if Boromir did not remember their relationship. 

Still, the nights alone in his room above the smithy were even more agonizing than they had been while Boromir was away. Then, he'd had hope that Boromir would one day come home to him. He'd even been prepared for Boromir's death. He had not been prepared for this. This was worse than death. 

"Tarran?" 

Tarran started, nearly dropping his tongs. "Yes, my lord." 

Boromir blinked. "I apologize for my familiarity…" 

"No matter. It is my name and you may call me that." He'd hated hearing Boromir call him smith. Would he hate even more Boromir calling him by his name with no affection? 

"Tarran." 

"Yes, my lord?" He looked at Boromir now; there was clear distress on his face. "Is aught amiss?" 

"I should like to reward you for your patience with me. I will take you for supper. If you would like it." This last was delivered with a shyness that made Tarran's heart constrict. Could he do this all again? Construct a relationship from the ground up? 

"I would like that," he said cautiously.

Boromir gave the name of a tavern they'd often frequented for the stew, while mocking the watered-down beer. Tarran cleaned himself after work perhaps more than was necessary. He had a brief debate with himself about what to do with his hair before deciding to wear it loose. Boromir loved his hair. 

**

Boromir brought his rough sketches for a pommel and grip with him, so that there would be something to talk about. He didn't want to make it look like he'd just asked Tarran to supper because he wanted to, though that was true. He also wanted to spend as much time with him as possible until he remembered what he was forgetting. 

Something shot through him when Tarran settled himself at the table across from Boromir. He'd never seen him with his hair down and yet it sparked something in him… 

He was getting another headache. He dropped his spoon, clapping a hand to his forehead. Tarran was at his side instantly, arm about his shoulders. "What's wrong?" he murmured in Boromir's ear.

 _Everything_ , he wanted to say, but the word that left his mouth was "Nothing." 

Tarran obviously didn't believe him, but he returned to his own seat, albeit with apparent reluctance. 

They ate stew and mocked the watered-down beer, and talked of Boromir's design. 

"I should like to see the shield you plan to use with it before I do the detailing," Tarran said. 

Boromir frowned. "I fear that will not matter. I think my fighting days are over." Part of him was glad Tarran hadn't realized the extent of his injuries. For his pride, he was glad it wasn't obvious to onlookers. 

Tarran's mouth pressed together in concern. "Do your wounds still bother you, my lord?" He flushed. "I knew you had been hurt."

Boromir stared at the table, his eyes losing focus for a moment. "I was close to death. Or perhaps past that boundary." 

Tarran's fists clenched on the table. "My lord, I…" His eyes were very blue. 

Boromir was barely conscious of stumbling from the tavern. He could not see the way in front of him, was only conscious of Tarran calling his name.

"Boromir! Boromir!" 

His head hurt, almost to the point where he feared it might burst. If only he could remember what he knew he was missing… 

Once back at the citadel, he pushed past Faramir, who came at him with worry, and shut himself in his chamber. He slept all night and through most of the day when he heard his chamber door open. 

The king stood before him. 

"Boromir," he said. "Faramir tells me you are troubled." 

His mouth went dry. He had already taken so much of the king's time. He did not want to impose any further… 

"Let me help you, Boromir," Aragorn said quietly, and Boromir said no more as Aragorn gentle pressed his fingers to his temples. 

**

Boromir did not come the next day. Tarran worked numbly, his focus now on the hilt decorations. He used the white tree as inspiration, for he had first fallen in love with Boromir while he wore that emblem on his breast. 

The sword was finished and wrapped in paper, and Tarran had moved on to other work when the door opened.

"Tarran." 

He stiffened, heart racing. "Yes, my lord." 

"Tarran," Boromir repeated, in such a fond tone that Tarran turned. He could see immediately that his Boromir was back. He opened his arms and Tarran pushed around to the front of the counter, heedless of his work apron. Thankfully, Boromir seemed not to mind. "I am so sorry, Tarran." 

Tarran could say nothing, could only press closer to him. Boromir felt the same, apparently, for his grip on Tarran was as tight as if he expected to be torn away from him. 

"You have nothing to apologize for," he murmured into Boromir's neck. 

Boromir let out a great, shuddering breath. "I did not know who you were." 

"What made you remember?" Tarran kissed his forehead. He could not keep from kissing him, but he also wanted Boromir to speak if that was what he desired. 

"The king. He has hands of healing. He… used them on me before, when…" 

A coil of dread settled in the pit of Tarran's stomach. He swallowed hard. "You spoke some of that." 

"Aye, and suffice it to say I am at last fully returned to you, my love. It pains me to have caused you distress." 

Boromir's fingertips were feather-light on Tarran's stubbled cheek. He could not keep himself from kissing him. Boromir's mouth opened before his, and it was like they had always been, neither of them able to refrain from touching the other. 

"I missed you," he managed. 

"And I you." Boromir's hand found the tie in his hair and pulled it free. Tarran smiled against Boromir's mouth. Of course he could not resist getting his hands in Tarran's hair. 

"We should…" Tarran managed. He was suddenly conscious of where they were—the front room of his shop, where anyone could see them. 

"If you are suggestion we go upstairs…" Boromir's mouth was hot on his neck. "I would be agreeable. But if you are suggesting we must hide, that is nonsense. I swore to you when I was back, I would think of what to do, and now an answer has been presented to me." 

Tarran would have thought to ask for details. But he had only one thing on his mind. 

"We _could_ go upstairs."

Boromir agreed. 

Their lovemaking was sweet and slow, hands and mouths exploring territory from which they'd too long been absent. He was distressed to see the scars on Boromir's body, but he kissed each one carefully, committing them to memory. They were part of his lover now.

And when they were finished, Boromir did not leave. He stayed, lying quietly in Tarran's arms.

"Tell me what happened." He stroked Boromir's hair. 

And he did. It was a tale Tarran knew in part; everyone had heard of the little hobbits, and Tarran had seen them, from far below, at the king's coronation. He could feel the shame in Boromir's voice as he spoke of trying to take the ring from Frodo and he squeezed his hand.

"I wish I could have been there."

"I am glad you weren't." Boromir kissed him. "I would not like to have been worrying about you, nor to have had to explain to my father why I must take a swordsmith with me." 

"A swordsmith would have been useful."

"And then I would have worried." 

Tarran could sense he was stalling. "What happened next?"

Boromir spoke in a monotone as he related encountering the orcs and being hit by the arrows. "I was dead," he said quietly. "The king saved me." 

"Then he has my gratitude." Tarran couldn't imagine himself speaking to the king, but he would thank him personally for returning Boromir to him. 

Boromir laughed. Then, as though he could read his mind, he said, "You can tell him yourself when you come to the citadel with me." 

"Come to the citadel?" 

Boromir's face broke into a smile. "Have you not realized? The king has returned, freeing me from the obligation of producing an heir." He cupped Tarran's jaw. "I can do as I've always wanted to and devote my life to you." 

Any fear he had of being presented to the king evaporated as Boromir kissed him. He would thank the king. Perhaps he would like a sword.


End file.
